Freeing the Dead
A mother told me her daughters were murdered a few days prior to my arrival in the dream. She cried on my shoulder and pleaded for help.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“They’re in my shed right now, scratching at the walls, trying to break out.”
When I opened the door to the shed the younger daughter lunged at me. I kept the door slightly ajar and studied her face. The corners of her mouth had blackened, her skin was gray and the eyes lifeless. A putrid smell slipped out and entered my lungs. It was a familiar odor, one I’d grown accustomed to since I was child dreaming about the dead.
The mother demanded that I shut the door. These girls were dead and clearly angry about it. I tried to explain that we needed to let them out. Although she was reluctant she finally agreed.
The girls ran into the streets and I followed. They were taking me to the source of their pain. Their hissing and ragged panting rang in my ears as I shifted into the next dream.